


Once Upon a Time in the East

by rubypop



Series: High Noon in the Far East [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blackwatch Era, Consensual Sex, Drinking to Cope, Drunk Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, Hook-Up, M/M, McHanzo - Freeform, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Sleepy Sex, Young Hanzo Shimada
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-14 01:41:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12997080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubypop/pseuds/rubypop
Summary: The leader of the Shimada clan has died, and Blackwatch is infiltrating their compound. A young cowboy keeps an eye on an assassin prince, who struggles with an impossible choice that threatens the succession of his criminal empire.





	Once Upon a Time in the East

**Author's Note:**

> Dipping my toe in the McHanzo well at last! Please enjoy the start of this new three-part series. You can also visit me at my [personal site](http://www.bishopblue.net), too.

It’s 2AM and McCree is slurping noodles in the Rikimaru Ramen Shop, pleased with his first trip to Japan. He parted with Reyes and the rest of the infiltration unit at midnight, and is grateful now for the scant free time to enjoy the sights. It’s a balmy April night and the Hanamura district is readying for its annual cherry blossom festival, and even at this late hour the streets are bustling with tourists. McCree, despite his cowboy getup, is no more suspicious than the dozens of other gaijin boozing around on holiday.

He’s still getting the hang of chopsticks, soldiering on despite the shopkeeper’s pointed offering of a fork. He has to mop broth from his sideburns but still he considers it a victory, heaving a long sigh of appreciation as he pushes the bowl away.

“Airy-gahtoo, partner,” he exclaims, and the shopkeeper cracks a smile.

McCree heads off into the night. Everything in Hanamura has, so far, been a delight, from the strange proportions of the cigarette he lights now (“Silk Cuts,” what a name!) to the lovely maiko that giggle as they trip by on tall wooden shoes. He hopes that Reyes will let him watch their performance at the festival, but he’s not going to hold his breath: this mission is time-sensitive, and McCree is supposed to contribute enough intelligence to warrant action over the next couple of days.

McCree inhales deeply on his cigarette. Just the day before, their networks received word that Sojiro Shimada, leader of the centuries-old Shimada clan, had unexpectedly died. Blackwatch immediately infiltrated the clan to assess the situation: was this finally their chance to take down the criminal empire? Reyes certainly thought so, but Commander Morrison advised caution. Shimada has two sons, after all, and the eldest — McCree checks the dossier on his phone — is next in line to take over.

Hanzo Shimada, twenty-eight, frowns back at McCree from the dossier. Too pretty of a face for an assassin prince, McCree thinks. Or pretty enough? He thumbs one screen over to the younger brother, Genji. The snapshot came from a Blackwatch spy posing as a prostitute, and in it the red-faced Genji is grinning, drunk, surrounded by radiant ladies-of-the-night. McCree guesses that the Shimada elders are relieved to have the disciplined, unsmiling Hanzo as their next oyabun.

McCree continues his patrol, drinking in the sights. The entrance to the Shimada Castle grounds is vast, an enormous gate emblazoned with the family’s dual-dragon insignia. Sleek guards in black suits stand watch. He avoids their gaze, slipping into an alleyway festooned in paper lanterns.

The alleyway is tight, and low-hanging signs from the crowded shopfronts nearly take off his hat. The tourists prefer the open squares and cherry trees, and it’s all locals here, drunk salarymen, part-timers in aprons, and the occasional tattooed Shimada man. Floating above them all are the ubiquitous paper lanterns, white and red and gleaming in the dark.

He winds through the labyrinthine alleyways until an innocuous izakaya gives him pause. He can’t read Japanese for shit, but a quick glance at the dossier confirms that he’s recognized this particular place. It’s set off by a single kanji, “Fallen Petal,” that emblazons the red lanterns flanking the door.

The Fallen Petal, none other than Hanzo Shimada’s watering hole of choice. McCree peers inside, surprised to find it no bigger than a closet, with just enough room for a bartop and some stools. Hanzo himself is not here — there is only a creaky grandpa turning sticks of grilled meat on a brazier. McCree keeps moving, noting the izakaya’s location. He’ll have to return on patrol sometime later. Surely Hanzo will swing by eventually. He’s preparing to bury his old man, after all.

McCree whistles. Is Hanzo Shimada the type to mourn? McCree shed no tears over his own papa’s death, pleased that the old bastard had finally found his place in hell. Decades of booze had pickled his seemingly-indestructible liver, and McCree, though long-escaped to the rough-and-tumble life of the Deadlock Gang, felt only relief at being orphaned at last.

McCree lights another cigarette and inhales far too deeply. He used to hide in his room for days at a time, hoping the lock on his door wouldn’t give way to drunken kicks and punches. No matter how high McCree cranked the volume, he could hear his papa shout “Cocksucker!” over the sound of the TV. McCree thus became an expert at tuning out the world, focusing only on the sharpshooting adventures of heroes like Wyatt Earp and The Man With No Name.

On a particularly searing-hot night, the locked door finally came down. He dodged the old bastard’s beatings as much as he could, but he was limping when he fled to the living room, his nose gushing blood. He fumbled at the rack by the door and staggered beneath the weight of his papa’s old hunting rifle. The old bastard laughed, slapping his knee at the sight. McCree fled then, dragging the rifle behind him through the arid dust.

A posse of Deadlocks picked him up the next day, and the rest, as they say, is history.

McCree wonders now if having a ninjutsu mob boss for a father was any better than a cantankerous drunk. He flicks away the cigarette. Probably all the same, once they’re dead.

#

Hanzo can only gravely watch as Genji sobs over the corpse of their father. His younger brother pulls at their father’s funeral robes, soaking them with tears. Hanzo has stood guard in the doorway for hours now, barring entry while his brother grieves. He has shed no tears himself, not yet. He doesn’t know if he even will.

Kuro is the first he allows to approach, who creeps from the shadows silently. True to his name, the Black Rabbit, he appears quickly and silently to peer over Hanzo’s shoulder. Hanzo faces him, and his slender face goes unchanged. Together they observe Genji’s hysterics with great solemnity.

“The elders are impatient to begin the funeral,” Kuro murmurs, and Hanzo shakes his head at once.

“Genji will have all the time he needs.”

“Even in death, the oyabun spoils him.”

Hanzo sighs. “It can’t be helped.”

“I will tell the elders they will have to wait.”

“No. Stay with me for just a while.”

Kuro glances at him, amused. “Do his tears bother you so much?”

“I am bothered by the lack of my own.”

Kuro smiles. “You’re his successor. You approach your new station with the proper gravity.”

Hanzo does not respond. Genji buries his face into their father’s chest, heaving.

“I cannot bear to see him this way,” Kuro says. “His heart is completely broken.”

“It will heal.”

Kuro nods, unconvinced. He pulls Hanzo into a brief hug. Hanzo feels, at once, tears prick his eyes. Kuro pulls away, leaving a whiff of jasmine, as Hanzo blinks rapidly.

“It can’t be helped,” Kuro whispers, and Hanzo sags against the doorway when he departs.

It has been less than twenty-four hours since his father’s death, and Hanzo’s life has utterly changed. Sojiro Shimada was found unconscious in his chamber early in the morning, and nothing could resuscitate him. Hanzo had screamed at the family doctors until the death was declared, and then the reality of this drained all emotion from him. He could only observe as Genji stumbled home, drunk, at five AM, and the sight of the news instantly sobering his brother broke Hanzo’s heart. Genji had been in hysterics ever since, refusing to abandon their father’s body for its imminent cremation.

Meanwhile the elders were already gathering, sending Kuro back and forth with their impatient missives. Orphaned and indentured to the clan at a young age, Kuro has spent his entire life growing up beside Hanzo and Genji, acting as their personal servant and companion. With Sojiro Shimada dead and Hanzo destined to take his place, Kuro’s forthcoming role was clear: saiko-komon, personal advisor and bodyguard to the oyabun.

It is Kuro who finally draws Hanzo away from Sojiro’s chamber, leaving Genji to finish grieving in solitude. Hanzo is grateful to be unburdened so. Kuro walks him through the manor, which is silent and dark, and Hanzo rubs his eyes, surprised at the late hour. Through the windows, the falling sakura blossoms flash in the floodlights that secure the castle grounds.

“The elders are very concerned,” Kuro says, “about Genji’s behavior. It makes the clan look weak.”

“They need not be concerned. I will be taking Father’s place, after all. Not him.”

Kuro shakes his head, says lowly, “It’s not so simple, Hanzo.”

Hanzo glances askance, though exhaustion has made his eyes heavy.

“The elders desire a more . . . united front, in the leadership.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m warning you, Hanzo.” Kuro grips his hand. “A great judgment will come to pass very soon.”

“They can do nothing.”

Kuro is silent.

As Hanzo prepares for bed, he turns over this conversation in his mind. What could Kuro possibly mean — a great judgment? Surely Hanzo’s succession has never been in doubt. He has prepared his entire life to take leadership of the clan, training countless hours with sword and strategy, a master of the bow, of moving with deadly silence. His father made sure of this, disciplining Hanzo for any perceived slights, while Genji escaped any such punishment, spoiled by their father ever since boyhood. Sojiro would only laugh at Genji’s antics, crying, “Little Sparrow, how you remind me of your mother,” while Hanzo knelt in silence, smarting from the strike of a bamboo switch.

Despite all of this, Hanzo never resented his father, nor his brother for skating by. Genji’s zest for indulgence brought a welcome levity to their deadly serious life in the clan.

Hanzo retires now, weighed down by thoughts of the day to come. There is still the funeral to arrange, and the elders’ cryptic messages to deal with. How much will they meddle in his succession? He settles into an uneasy sleep.

Hanzo dreams. His father’s soul is a dragon slipping away into the night. His own soul follows, formless. A sparrow darts into his eyes. He bats at it, swipes, slashes. A rabbit lies caught in a wire, twisted, bleeding on the ground. Its beadlike eye stares, unblinking.

Hanzo is covered in blood. Warmth drapes him. He smears the blood across his chest, can’t wipe it away. It spreads. It spreads.

Lips on his own, a warm mouth. He’s choking on blood.

He awakes. It is Kuro who drapes him. Kuro Usagi, who kisses him now in the dark. Hanzo’s robe is open, and Kuro’s slender fingers are winding over his chest, winding down, down.

“Kuro,” he protests, and a hot palm slides beneath the waistband of his jinbei.

“Shh.” Kuro kisses him again. “Sleep, Hanzo. Sleep.”

Kuro is working him now, tugging, gentle. Hanzo moans, muddled by sleep. He pushes Kuro’s chest, and Kuro bears down, straddling him. Kuro’s robe is open, too, and his narrow chest gleams white and ghostly in the moonlight. His hair, normally knotted high, spills between them, draping Hanzo in shimmering curtains of black.

“What are you — ah — ahh —”

Kuro smiles. Hanzo sees the rabbit in the trap, feels the fearful heart hammering. Hammering.

He’s fully erect now, and Kuro pushes back the long tresses of his hair, leans down. Hanzo protests again, and Kuro’s mouth closes over him, silencing him.

“Little Sparrow,” he hears his father laugh. “Always with your women, you foolish boy.”

Hanzo gasps. His hands find Kuro’s scalp, press there, urging him on.

The first time Hanzo and Kuro dragged a fourteen-year-old Genji from the Shimada-run red light district, Hanzo observed the giggling fuzoku girls with no interest. This puzzled him deeply. As the years passed, he wondered why his younger brother was so enamored with skirt-chasing while he, Hanzo, focused only on studies and training. It was Kuro who first pointed this out, this difference between the two brothers, and Hanzo had merely shrugged, though a niggling doubt remained. Was he merely more disciplined than his brother? Or was there something more?

Hanzo, pinned beneath Kuro, is awash in confusion and desire. Kuro lifts his head, his dark eyes glittering, and a cold slickness replaces his hot mouth, his hand working Hanzo anew in firm strokes.

“Hanzo,” Kuro whispers. “Hanzo.”

Hanzo reaches up. Kuro is surreal in the low moonlight, lithe and pale, and his robe drops back, revealing arms wreathed in full sleeves of black-and-gold tattoos, long-eared rabbits chasing gilted clouds down to the bony rises of his wrists. His long fingers stroke and glide through the cold lubricant. He raises himself up, sliding over Hanzo’s belly, and he leans back, slowly penetrating himself.

“Ah — Kuro . . .”

“Shh,” Kuro says again, easing him deeper.

Hanzo grits his teeth. Kuro coos, caressing his face. He rocks forward and back, gently, gently, until he comes to rest in Hanzo’s lap, where he sits in taut silence.

“You will be the next oyabun,” Kuro whispers. He presses his forehead to Hanzo’s, which is slick with sweat. “I will be your advisor. I will be your bodyguard. I will protect you with my life.”

Kuro begins to ride him, and Hanzo thrashes uselessly. Kuro grips his skull and holds him steady.

“You cannot,” Kuro bites out, “let Genji stand in the way of this.”

“Genji?”

“The elders. Take their reservations seriously.”

Hanzo shakes his head, freeing himself from Kuro’s grip. “They don’t command me. They never commanded my father.”

“You are —” And Kuro shudders, pushing Hanzo against the futon. The black rabbits dance down his arms. “— beholden to them. More than you know. And your foolish brother, he will —”

Hanzo growls. He shoves Kuro back, flips him to the tatami. Kuro laughs. Hanzo presses him flat, and Kuro’s long legs wind around his waist, trapping him, pushing him in to the hilt.

“Know,” Hanzo gasps, “your place.”

Kuro is grinning, goading him, maddeningly beautiful. Hanzo gives a strangled cry and fucks him with a new fury, thinking of the rabbit in the wire, twisted and bloody, and he wants to twist Kuro up, bite his throat, devour him, for how dare a rabbit try to best a dragon?

When Hanzo comes he gives a short howl of agony, and Kuro laughs, touching his cheek, and Hanzo does not notice the besuited guard outside peer curiously through the window and dart back, realizing he has seen something he is not supposed to see.

“Save your fury,” Kuro whispers as the moon slips behind a cloud, the room growing dark, “for the battle ahead. You will need your strength. Trust me. In this.”

Hanzo crumples against him. Deep within his chest, his own heart is hammering. From Kuro he hears nothing, feels nothing at all.

#

“McCree. Report in.”

McCree snorts himself awake. He bangs his head against the ceiling of his capsule room and swears loudly. An irritated knock sounds from the pod above him. He’s lost for a moment in  claustrophobic drowsiness before he remembers where he is, and the call he’s forgotten to make.

He stabs his earpiece and mumbles, “McCree reporting in.”

It’s Reyes, his voice dripping with venom. “You’re three hours late. I would have thought you were compromised if I didn’t know you so well.”

McCree yawns enormously.

“Report your findings.”

“Not much so far.” McCree gropes around for his hat, which has smashed flat beneath him in the night. He tries to revive it, snapping it a few times in the air. “Patrol took me around the castle. Lanterns and fried fish, not much else. Lots of pretty girls in white makeup, though.”

“Our window to make a move is very small, McCree.”

“I know, I know. I think I got a lead. Ran across Hanzo Shimada’s favorite drinking spot.”

Reyes grunts. “This isn’t new information.”

“Hey, it’s somethin. I circled back around closing time and the old pappy what runs the place gave me a hot tip. That cherry blossom festival’s tonight, right?”

“Also not new information.”

“Cool your jets, hombre. When it comes to any kinda revelry, our mark is a bit of a wet blanket. And by wet, I mean a huge, depressive lush. He’s bound to be drinkin in solitude while everyone else is partying.”

“That’s not much of a lead.”

“Well, what did you get?”

Another grunt. McCree grins.

“Thought so. Though I’m bummed I won’t be able to watch the geisha girls dance. Take some pictures for me, will you?”

“Just report back on time. Got it?”

“Still no fun, as always. Got it, boss. Over and out.”

He finally succeeds in popping his hat into its original shape. He dons it and shimmies free of the capsule. It’s time to carb up with some more of those scrumptious noodles and prepare for the night ahead.

#

Hanzo kneels before the cremation chamber, watching his father’s body burn. The elders sit in a silent line behind him. Kuro kneels respectfully by the door, his face downturned. Genji has refused to be present for the cremation, and Hanzo cannot be sure where he is.

Hanzo stares into the dancing flames, his face betraying nothing, though the heat from the fire matches the confusion raging in his heart. He is painfully aware of Kuro’s presence, like the white-hot head of a poker touching the back of his skull. They have exchanged no words about the night before, in fact have not spoken at all: Hanzo silently accepted Kuro’s help in dressing for the funeral, and Kuro’s long fingers did not stray as they smoothed the hem of his black haori.

It takes nearly two hours for Sojiro Shimada’s body to be fully consumed by the flames. When the time comes, Hanzo picks the bones from the ashes himself, lining the urn that will join his mother’s in the family tomb. He feels nothing as he retrieves his father’s remains, passing the bones from ash to urn in troubled silence.

When the rites are done, he is summoned unceremoniously to the elders’ chamber. They sit in a circle around the room’s hearth, taking turns stoking and fanning the fire. He waits by the door, and when they call him in they send Kuro away.

“We are concerned,” one of them says, his voice creaking with age, “and disheartened by your younger brother, Hanzo.”

Hanzo steels himself. “He is in mourning.”

A chuckle circles the room. “His behavior is unfitting of his station.”

“Give him time.”

“There is no time, dear boy.”

Hanzo’s face colors. “Is this how you speak to your new oyabun?”

“You are not oyabun yet, dear boy.”

“You disrespect me.”

“You must earn your place. You must prove you are worthy.”

Hanzo’s jaw tightens. “I have inherited my place.”

“Inheritance, yes. Inheritance is very important to the clan.”

“Inheritance and heirs,” another elder pipes up, prompting a furtive chortle. The coals glow in the sunken hearth as the elders fan and jab.

“Heirs?” Hanzo says, lowly.

“We are plagued by doubts, you see,” one of them chuckles. “You may disprove these doubts, dear boy, by reigning in your brother. He makes a fool of the entire clan.”

“A united leadership is key,” another says.

“Yes. The twin dragons. Your legacy.”

“It is so, it is so.”

“Either your brother will rule by your side,” and the coals leap now for emphasis, sending up sparks, “or you will eliminate his poor influence.”

Hanzo shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Demand his obedience, dear boy, or stamp him out. To put it plainly: he will submit, or he will die.”

“A dragon striking down a dragon. It is the only way.”

“You ask me,” Hanzo says lowly, “to kill my own brother?”

A flurry of laughter, nothing more.

“I cannot,” Hanzo says, louder. “I will not.”

“ _Shikata ga nai_. There is no choice.”

“No choice.”

“I can’t,” Hanzo falters.

“You will.”

“You will honor your father. You will honor this clan.”

“ _Shikata ga nai_.”

“ _Shikata ga nai_.”

Hanzo wilts, clenches his fists, unclenches them. He knows he cannot fight them. He knows, he understands the inevitable truth.

“I have no choice,” he murmurs, and the elders chuckle their approval, and they send him away.

When Hanzo steps into the hallway, Kuro draws back. He’s had his ear pressed against the shoji.

Hanzo shuts the screen carefully and seizes the lapels of Kuro’s black silk suit. He drives him into the next room, a storeroom filled with old kimono. He slams Kuro against the shelves.

“What did you tell them?” he growls.

Kuro shakes his head. He’s still smiling, despite the tresses of hair that have worked loose from his topknot and fallen into his face. “I’ve told them nothing.”

“Why do they seem so concerned now with inheritance, with heirs?”

Kuro shrugs, and Hanzo slams him again. He laughs. “Calm down, they will hear you, young master, they will hear you.”

“Let them hear me.”

“I warned you. They are serious about Genji. You must do all you can to convince him to behave.”

Hanzo’s eyes fill with tears, and Kuro’s face softens.

“I have no choice,” Hanzo whispers. His hands loosen.

Kuro flings his arms around Hanzo in a fierce hug. Hanzo buries his face into his tie.

“It can’t be helped,” Kuro whispers, stroking Hanzo’s heaving back. “It can’t be helped.”

The tears run free, and Hanzo shudders, mourning his brother, his father, at last.

#

The festival is on. Thousands of people, tourists and locals alike, choke the streets of Hanamura, feasting and drinking beneath the foamy cherry trees. McCree watches wistfully through binoculars, kneeling on the tiled roof of a shrine. The air is filled with flashing petals and floating lamps, the scent of burning charcoal and roasting meat. A passel of merrymakers surrounds a stage of women in yukata that lead them all in Hanamura’s regional dance. When McCree spies some red-faced Blackwatch members toasting cups of sake, he lowers his binoculars with a jealous snort. He regrets letting Reyes in on his lead.

The Shimada compound, which lies just beyond the festivities, has been silent and somber all day. McCree glimpsed smoke from the crematorium early in the morning, and observed Genji Shimada leave the compound in tears. According to his fellow agents, the younger Shimada has been shut up in the local Soaplands ever since. McCree has seen hide nor hair of the elder Shimada all day.

McCree lights another smooth Japanese cigarette, and then glimpses his quarry at last. He raises his binoculars: there he is, Hanzo Shimada, striding from the rear entrance of the manor in his black mourning kimono. McCree sucks on his cigarette and cranks up the zoom. The assassin prince’s face is stony, almost blank, betraying nothing.

McCree presses his earpiece. “I got a visual on our mark.”

“Stay with him. Be discreet.”

McCree pauses. “Is that drumming I hear in the background?”

Reyes says nothing at first. “Do your job, McCree.”

McCree whips around, focusing on the dancing crowds. A pair of taiko drummers are enthusiastically playing above the crowd. “Are you here?”

“Keep your eyes on the mark.”

McCree spots him in the crowd then, Gabriel Reyes, who’s lifting an oni mask to gnaw grilled meat from a skewer.

“You bastard,” McCree cries.

Reyes glares right at him. McCree lowers his binoculars and pouts.

“You’re going to lose him,” Reyes snits, and turns away to eat his yakiniku.

McCree spits out his cigarette with a grunt. He turns back to Hanzo, who is slipping into a nearby alleyway. He hops from the shrine and follows, ducking beneath a fleet of white lanterns.

 

Hanzo heads exactly where McCree has expected: to the Fallen Petal, which clears out upon his arrival. The old barkeep serves him immediately, pouring sake into a tall glass that overflows into a small wooden box. Hanzo instantly downs the glass, sups the overflow from the box, and the barkeep bows and pours a refill. McCree watches with fascination.

He finds himself approaching the bar, ignoring Reyes’s order of discretion. Let the bastard have his grilled meat, McCree thinks. A little sake won’t compromise anything.

He tips his hat to the barkeep and takes a seat next to Hanzo, their shoulders bumping in the tiny space. The barkeep hesitates, glancing from Hanzo to McCree. McCree points to Hanzo’s glass, which he is slamming back to the bartop, and says, “One o’these, if’n you don’t mind.”

The barkeep doesn’t move, staring at Hanzo nervously.

Hanzo tosses back the sake from the wooden box, heaves a long breath, and then shouts something furiously in Japanese. The barkeep jumps. Hanzo grips his glass, glaring, and then half a dozen besuited Shimada men creep from the shadows, eyeballing McCree through their sunglasses as they go. McCree’s face drains. He’d had no idea they were even there.

“ _Chikuso_ ,” Hanzo growls, and the barkeep fills his glass again. He jabs a finger at McCree, and the barkeep scrambles to produce another glass, setting it inside another wooden box and filling it over the brim.

“Uh,” McCree says, and Hanzo laughs at once, waving his hand.

“Drink, drink. It’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?” he says in perfect, heavily-accented English.

McCree lifts his glass, which drips with overflowing sake. He leans ludicrously over the wooden box and puckers his lips against the glass. Hanzo bursts out laughing and claps McCree on the back, who bumps into the glass and nearly spills it all.

“Hey!”

“Drink like a man, American cowboy.” Hanzo knocks back his own glass and drains the wooden box.

McCree glares. “You’re asking for it.”

He shoots the sake, which dribbles down his chin, and awkwardly drinks from the wooden box, which similarly wets his soul patch.

Hanzo laughs again.

“Man, how do you even do this?” McCree wipes his mouth as the barkeep refills his glass. “And what’s the deal with this box thing?”

“ _Masu_.”

“Mah-wha?”

Hanzo taps the wooden box. “This is called _masu_. It catches the overflow.”

“But why?”

Hanzo gestures dramatically. “So that it doesn’t spill onto the table!”

McCree stares at him and then cracks a smile. “But — but why in tarnation overpour it in the first place? S’that some kinda ancient Japanese ritual or somethin?”

Hanzo sits back, rubbing his chin. He slaps the bartop and says, “Nobody knows!”

It’s McCree’s turn to laugh, and soon he and Hanzo are trading shots, Hanzo never spilling a drop, despite the characteristically Japanese redness that is spreading across his face. McCree, well-versed in pounding rotgut hooch with his Deadlock brothers, easily keeps pace, and is shocked at Hanzo’s fortitude. Before long, both of them are guffawing together, arm-in-arm, much to the surprise of the staring festival-goers that pass by the bar.

“I am sure,” Hanzo says suddenly, growing serious despite the slur that nearly obscures his English, “you know who I am, American cowboy.”

McCree clears his throat. He squints at Hanzo, wobbling over the bartop. “Are you now?”

“ _Doushite_ , my men have observed you skulking around for days.”

McCree grins. Busted. “You’re kinda hard to miss, Shimada-san.”

“But you.” Hanzo bobs in place, pointing a finger at McCree. “I don’t know. Who _you_ are.”

McCree nearly sighs with relief. “Just a, uh. A fan?”

“A fan? An _otaku_ ? No, _mania_.”

“Uh —”

Hanzo points to McCree’s hat and jabs him in the chest. “Cowboy _mania_.”

“Uhh.”

Hanzo then slips the hat from McCree’s head and pops it on. He pulls the brim down low and fixes McCree with a deadly stare.

“Fistful of Dollars,” Hanzo slurs, then points a pretend gun at McCree and fires. “Clint Eastwood. Bang.”

McCree snickers. “You nailed it, partner.”

Hanzo plucks off the hat and twirls it, then replaces it backwards on McCree’s head. He pulls the brim down over McCree’s eyes and plants a firm kiss on his mouth.

A thrill of surprise jolts McCree, who hurriedly pushes the hat up. “Whoa, whoa, partner. Whoa.”

Hanzo stares seriously back. McCree is struck, at once, by the lantern-light playing from his face. There’s something feminine about the cut of his cheeks, the hairlessness of his jaw. McCree himself has cruised around the block a few times — male or female, it didn’t matter to him — but the assassin prince had never quite pinged his radar.

The barkeep has turned away, busying himself with dishes. The passers-by are all now completely oblivious to the little pub. Their discretion is all so automatic that McCree wonders if he’s wandered unwittingly into a frequent coping mechanism of Hanzo’s.

“I,” McCree says, his drunken resolve battling against the sudden stirring in his jeans. “Woo boy. I’m sure flattered, but . . .”

Hanzo has placed a hand on McCree’s thigh, and he leans on it heavily.

“Y’know, you’re mighty roostered, and I’m a gentleman, I can’t be takin advantage . . .”

Hanzo, without breaking eye contact, reaches over the bar, fills another glass, and pushes it, pointedly, toward McCree. McCree laughs nervously. What if Reyes were to stroll by about now? He’d certainly choke on his grilled meat.

Hanzo lifts the glass to McCree’s lips, and he tips it, and McCree drinks, gulping down the sake, never breaking their gaze. When the glass is empty, Hanzo kisses him again, and McCree passes a mouthful of sake to him, and Hanzo chuckles, drawing him close.

 

Hanzo crushes McCree against the lantern-strewn wall of a back alley, smothering him in a kiss. McCree’s hat flops back and nearly drops. They paw at each other savagely. McCree is taller but Hanzo’s strength surprises him, and he doesn’t think he’d be able to get away even if he wanted to. McCree grinds against him, trying to force him playfully back, and Hanzo laughs softly at this challenge, pressing his wrists to the wall.

“You think you are tough, cowboy,” Hanzo says, nipping McCree’s throat.

“Still with the cowboy bosh,” McCree gasps. “Don’t you,” gasps again, “even want to know my name?”

“ _Damare_ ,” Hanzo hisses, groping at McCree’s oversized belt buckle.

“Whoa. Whoa, this is happening,” McCree says, and he sucks in his breath as Hanzo tugs the waistband of his boxers. “Y’sure you don’t want, I don’t know, flowers or somethin first . . .”

A rush of cold then as Hanzo draws him out, and then Hanzo pumps him hard, almost painfully.

“Christ, I’m fixin to pop off. Y’know, I ain’t selfish, why don’t you let me — ah!”

And Hanzo dives, sucking McCree’s cock into the back of his throat. McCree buckles against the wall, seeing stars. The eternally-serious Hanzo’s fervor surprises him, and he wonders, faintly, what on Earth has provoked this side of him. Perhaps his own gentlemanly charm? Though Hanzo doesn’t seem to care much for pleasantries, suckling with such urgency that McCree is honestly impressed.

“I can’t — oh, Christ — gimme a second — ah — ah —”

McCree shudders, reaches up to secure his hat. He grinds his teeth, trying to last as long as he can, but he’s been hard since the kiss at the Fallen Petal, and Hanzo is relentless. He thinks of Hanzo’s challenge — “You think you are tough” — and McCree wants to gasp no, no, I’m not, you’ve got me, I’m yours, I give up, I surrender . . .

He comes, gasping, trying to pull away from Hanzo’s mouth, and Hanzo holds him steady, drinking it down. McCree shivers, shudders, releases a final spurt. Hanzo pulls away with a gasp. McCree stares at him, heaving, his face aflame. Hanzo quickly stands, covering his mouth. He meets McCree’s eyes.

McCree realizes, suddenly, that horror is filling Hanzo’s eyes.

He steps forward. “Hanzo, I —”

“ _Watashi_ ,” Hanzo murmurs, “ _no otouto_. My brother. I. I must.”

McCree’s mouth opens and closes.

“I must go.” Hanzo turns away.

“Wait!” McCree reaches for him, but Hanzo moves away in a flash, glaring back.

“I must go,” he bites out, and he is gone, swiftly and silently, down the alley.

“Wait a sec!”

McCree goes after him, stuffing himself back into his pants. He stumbles to a halt around a corner. Hanzo has already reached the street, where a long black limousine is waiting. The door pops open and Hanzo vanishes inside. McCree reaches out, and then lowers his arm again slowly. A young man is staring at him from his place next to Hanzo, chilly black eyes and a small, knowing smile. The door silently closes.

The limousine pulls away, and despite the blackout tint on the windows, McCree can feel the young man’s cold eyes long after the car is gone.

###


End file.
